


De Integro

by love_in_mind_palace (mysleepyhead)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Mention of Past Drug Abuse, Mention of past relationship, Pining, Science Fiction, Very fluffy in the end, sherlock is a stupid, very tiny bit of angst, who knew i do fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysleepyhead/pseuds/love_in_mind_palace
Summary: Sherlock Holmes does not have a flatmate. He has a chip in his head which tells him what to do and what not. Then Sherlock Holmes has a flatmate and that man tells him the same thing. This is the story of how Sherlock Holmes gets to know John Watson twice in his life. And falls in love with him over and over.De Integro means A second time.





	1. You must be he I was seeking (it comes to me, as of a dream)

**Author's Note:**

> Um so this fic idea came to my mind out of the blue. it sounded fun enough. So I decided to write it despite how silly it sounds. The science fiction is not really the main plot point. Don't expect scientific accuracy :3  
> Thanks to Lou for all the editing and cheering. And lots of thanks to Luna for reminding me to write. The chapter names are taken from the poem "To A Stranger by" Walt Whitman. The beautiful cover is done by my dear friend Kate.
> 
> This work is now complete.

 

London has always had a certain smell; a very strange and unique one, not perceivable by everyone living in it, at least, not by humans. Perhaps the atmospheric machines could identify the specific elements, particularly what gave London its specific scent?  But it would certainly not be recognized by humans. And it is quite evident and pronounced when someone comes back to London after a fairly long time. One year is a long time. Longer when you are in rehab. It's an isolated life. Time moves slower there.

 

Sherlock takes a long, almost soul purifying breath standing on the tarmac. Switzerland's air had a crisp, clean quality. Higher oxygen levels, according to statistics; at least three percent more than London and the pollution levels were much lower than any major cities. London lacked that  but what it lacked in cleanliness was made up with the familiarity. People would laugh but he can swear what he could smell in that air: Haemoglobin, gunpowder, adrenaline, sweat, chemicals. He can feel the vibrations of life on his tongue.

 

He will take familiarity over cleanliness any day. He missed London. Yes, he missed it terribly. He can admit it.

 

The woman standing by the black sedan is unfamiliar. Her dark brown hair shines in the light, reflecting the red aura of the setting sun. She is tirelessly typing on her phone. Not even glancing at the tall man with a very noticeable presence walking towards her. With a furrowed brow and a face devoid of any other expressions, she keeps murmuring under her breath. As Sherlock gets closer, she says without even looking up from the screen in a very monotonous and borderline bored voice.

 

“I am here to take you home.”

 

Sherlock purses his lips and shakes his head.

 

“Where is my brother?”

 

“Middle East, diplomatic meetings. He sends you his regards. He is sorry that he could not be here to greet you at your arrival. He is going to meet you as soon as possible. Now, if you please.”

 

She turns towards the car and holds open the door, slipping inside. Sherlock follows slowly. Not bothering to ask her name. Who cares, anyway?

 

The car ride is silent which proves to be quite useful and calming. Sherlock is grateful for that. But the silence makes something else creep into his mind and with a great amount of surprise, he realizes that he is utterly disappointed.

 

He did not really expect for his brother to be there. It is a miracle to see the man once in a month now that he has been promoted to a better position. Mycroft had told him in his letters in rehab. So the slight disappointment caused by Mycroft’s absence is extremely surprising. There is a reason of course, the simple human emotion - seek familiarity in every way possible. It has been one year since he has seen a familiar face. Well, the faces there got quite familiar in one year but it was not the same. And it is a shame really, that Sherlock, of all people is suddenly craving human contact now. Mycroft would laugh if he knew. Maybe not right at Sherlock's face but perhaps he would remind him of this minor fact at unnecessary moments.

 

At least the flat looked same. Almost. Mycroft’s doing most likely. A lot more decorated and cleaner than it used to be. New lamp. Sherlock remembers breaking the last one. Experiment with supersonic sounds. It shattered nicely. The floor looks clean. No ash, no torn pages. He remembers burning the carpet in two places; once by hydrochloric acid, that was an accident, the second time it wasn’t an accident. He needed carpet ash.

 

No empty syringe lying down in the corner of the room. No sign of the yellow rubber band. No Sebastian standing in the doorway with the look of utter disdain on his face. No Mycroft kneeling beside him and looking at a piece of paper in his hand with sad eyes while there is fireworks going on inside his brain. Yes, his eyes were sad. Sherlock was able to see that, even in his drug delirium state.

 

_“What have you done this time Sherlock?”_

 

_“See, I fooled you. Did you ever think that I would shoot myself up in my own flat?” He remembers giggling._

 

There was a single tear sliding down Mycroft’s cheek. Sherlock could swear that he saw a thousand colors reflected in that waterdrop. Which was impossible. A thousand colours did not exist. Neither does Mycroft’s tears. Both are entirely unrealistic.

 

Sherlock decides to terminate his reminiscences by marching into the bathroom and climbing into the shower. The hot water feels unexpectedly good. The tense muscles of his back slowly calms down under the stream as he lets the water rivulet down his spine, washing away the past. He notices that Mycroft inserted new tiles as well, (he hated the pattern on the previous one.) and only when the tension is gone, the hunger announces its presence through a loud rumbling in his stomach. He turns the taps off quickly, the resulting sudden stop in water pressure leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

 

Drying off and continuing his progress through the flat, he finds himself standing in the kitchen. His cupboards and fridge are full of food and perishables. Sherlock can not remember the last time he saw that much food in his flat. Healthy food. Not expired soups or off milk. Or stale bread with fungi all over.

 

Stomach full of food, comfortable clothes on, tired from jet lag. Sleep should have been easy. Unfortunately it wasn't.

 

“The sofa is not supposed to be particularly comfortable when one needs to recover from jet lag. I recall this flat has a bedroom with an above average bed in it which is surely an upgrade from the beds back in Switzerland. Can I ask why you are not using that? Or have you gotten used to less than comfortable beds in your time abroad?”

 

Sherlock jerks away from his already thinning sleep. Mycroft is sitting on the coffee table facing him. His chin propped up on his umbrella. Wearing a more expensive suit than he used to own one year ago. Hairline thinning more than it it’s supposed to be at his age. Must be the stress in the workplace. High ranking in government takes its toll. Despite everything, he looks good. Healthier. Happy? Should he ask? No. He should not.

 

“You put on at least eight pounds, Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock sits up groaning. These types of conversations came easier. Mycroft is right. The sofa was indeed an extremely bad choice but it was at least closer to the door as opposed to the bed. And it was not in the bedroom. Which made it the better candidate.

 

Mycroft protested when Sherlock wrote back that he wanted to occupy his old flat again. Saying how it was a foolish choice because none of the memories there were particularly felicitous. Sherlock argued that that was exactly why he needed to stay there. To rewrite, reprogram. That's how any machine works. Humans are machines after all.

 

_It's not a piece of software that you can reset and it starts with a clean slate. You are not going back there._

 

Mycroft’s letter was almost shouting at him. Sitting at the foot of the metal bed, Sherlock was able to imagine his brother's expression writing that letter. Furious, disappointed. That made Sherlock more obstinate, so much so that he didn’t even consider the consequences.

 

Mycroft was obviously right.

 

“It is nice to see you as well, brother mine.”

 

Mycroft returns a tight lipped smile but his eyes look soft. The tenderness makes Sherlock uncomfortable.

 

“I can’t stay here.”

 

Sherlock says after a moment of silence, not looking at Mycroft. Suddenly getting extremely  busy with cataloguing and indexing the hem of his shirt.

 

Mycroft’s small smile in return is that of the knowing. Not the mocking of ‘I told you so’ but rather a sad version of it.

 

“I will tell Anthea to search for an apartment for you.” Mycroft sighs, smoothing his hair in place.

 

“No.”

 

“No, what?”

 

“I will search for an apartment myself.”

 

“Why is that? Am I not capable enough to find a suitable apartment for you? That is a bit offending.” Mycroft snorts and looks a very tiny amount of hurt.

 

_Well yes, you are more than capable. I am quite sure of that. And that is the problem. This dependency over everything and everyone is what caused the problems in the first place. Emotional dependency over Sebastian which proved to be very immature, financial dependency over family and you and in the end when Sebastian got tired of me, every kind of dependency over cocaine._

 

But Sherlock decides not say that out loud. Some things must not see the light of the day.

 

“Everything offends you, Mycroft. I am hardly surprised.” He replies stretching.

 

The sharp pain in his shoulder and neck makes him wince. Yes, the sofa was an extremely bad idea. Coming back to this flat was the worst idea. He thought he was not that man anymore. The one whose life was just a cluster of bad ideas piled up onto each other like a stack of playing cards. One tremor and it collapsed.

 

“As you wish.” Mycroft nods his head in acquittance.

 

Sherlock knows that means he will not interfere with this whole flat finding business. He will let Sherlock choose but he will keep an eye on Sherlock. Like always. Literally he has no way of escaping Mycroft’s surveillance now that he is back in London. But that is the least he can settle for. It’s fifty percent annoyance and although he does not want to admit, it is fifty percent comforting.

 

Mycroft makes no attempt to stand up. Sherlock eyes him intently for some moment trying to see if he shows any intention of standing up anytime soon. If anything, Mycroft actually sits at the wooden table so comfortably that it seems like it is made of the softest fur.

 

A minute passes and Mycroft is still there. Eyes closed with a calm expression like he is listening to a symphony.

 

“Why are you still here?” Sherlock narrows his eyes in suspicion, darting his gaze in observation of his brother.

 

A small smile emerges on Mycroft’s lips. What percent of it is genuine and what percent of it is just amusement at Sherlock’s irritation, Sherlock has no idea. But yes, it is irritating. And it means Mycroft still has something to say.

 

“Although I might soon start having an excruciating headache and this conversation is accelerating that chance, you don’t seem like you will go unless you get whatever you have to tell me off from your chest. So please… By all means… Spill.” Sherlock doesn’t try to hide his irritation.

 

“What are your thoughts about A.I?” Mycroft smiles wide.

 

“What?”

 

“Artificial Intelligence.” Mycroft clarifies.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

“Of course I know what it means. That what was merely an exclamation, Mycroft. I am not dumb and past drug abuse did not dull my senses. What I actually intended to ask is, out of everything why are you suddenly asking for my thoughts about Artificial Intelligence? Is it your government’s new project? Should I be warned?”

 

Mycroft scrunches his nose.

 

“Well not entirely government, I mean at least the government will deny it and it is far from the need of being warned.”

 

“For God’s sake, can you clarify Mycroft? This is not a diplomatic meeting, no need to be tricky with words.” Sherlock lets out a defeated sigh and flails dramatically back against the couch cushions, rivalling that of any Victorian damsel depicted in Mummy’s borish novels of infatuation and sentiment.

 

“I am sorry. I will come to the point. Next Tuesday, I would like to show you something. Will you be kind enough to cooperate?” Mycroft chews on his lips. The expectancy of disapproval clear as crystal on his face.

 

“You could have asked that in, you know...” Sherlock gestures his hands in the air, “in a very easy way. What is with you and this trickery of words? I will never understand.”

 

“So?”

 

“Yes I will go. Now piss off.”

 

Sherlock stalks from his position and opens the door, tilting his head towards the doorway. It must seem rude. And that is the whole point.

 

“What are you going to do in the meantime?”

 

Mycroft pauses on the threshold. Lingering. Buying some more time. Sherlock knows why he is stalling. He isn’t as cold as he usually wants people to see him as. At least he is unable to hide it in front of Sherlock. Over the year, Mycroft has gotten softer much to Sherlock’s own dismay.

 

“I will look for something to keep me busy. Don’t worry. It will not be drugs. Mostly cold cases, old police reports. Lestrade must be still working with Scotland Yard, isn’t he? Time to go back and irritate him. Now off you go.” He almost kicks Mycroft out of the flat.

 

He is still tired and thirsty. A cold glass of water takes care of the latter. But about the former issue, there has to be something done.

 

Bedroom is out of the question. It doesn't look like it used to. But he can swear that he is able to smell Sebastian’s cologne in that room which is absolutely impossible. He used to wear that cologne for special days. His special had several meanings. It could mean an important office meeting. A lunch date with his busy wife or one when he decided to be drunk out of his mind. All of the special days usually ended with a debauched, fucked out of his brain Sherlock. And Sherlock actually liked it. To be precise, he needed it. He never made a wholehearted attempt to stop Seb even when his attempts were almost dubious. Because the sex was good. The sex kept him busy. The sex took off the edge. The constant vibration that his mind always had. The burning of energy, the bruises caused by extreme actions. It made him more disconnected with everything happening around him. It was what he longed for. Occupy, engage, disorient, bliss.

 

_“Who’d even want you anyway?”_

 

Seb always said that. And it was the truth. The freak in the school, bigger freak in society with all his alien features and never stopping mouth and ill-mannerisms. People had always kept a safe distance from him. Either pitied him or right down were afraid of him. Sherlock craved human contact at that time. Even unknowingly to himself. So when a chance meeting made him stand in front of Sebastian Wilkes again, Sherlock stood with all that he had. And Seb took the chance. He was married and that made him the right person. No chance of attachment. Just pure, raw and sometimes dubious human contact. It worked when it stayed. Like a charm. And when it didn’t stay. Other things worked. The ones you put in a syringe and pump directly into your veins. Instantaneous effect.

 

So right now, Sherlock hates both. Human contact and drugs.

 

He strips his bed of the duvet and carries it in front of the fireplace. A nice, cozy bed away from the bedroom. Pillows, blanket. A proper way to rest. He can sleep now.

 

Two taps makes the new sleek phone in his hand come to life. A low humming noise and then a sultry, feminine voice with an edge of a mechanical sound present in it, talks.

 

“Hello Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Good evening. I am Irene. What can I do for you?”

 

“Turn off the lights. Play Bach and don’t wake me up until eleven in the morning.” Sherlock buries his nose in the pillow.

 

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Good night.”

 

The lights slowly dim. The temperature of the room comes to a comforting warmth and music flows through his ears. He missed good music. Missed his violin. Mycroft must have taken good care of the stradivarius.

 

Sherlock falls asleep before the music is even five minutes in.

 

**

 

“I am absolutely happy to meet you in person, Mr. Holmes! I have heard so much about you from your brother. I am Nita Basu, the CEO.” The woman in the sharp suit and a very welcoming face smiles at Sherlock. Shaking his hands in enthusiasm.

 

Two dogs. One cat. Two children. Had a soy latte recently. Little stain on the collar of her black shirt. She didn't notice. If she did, it would be smudged with the attempt of removal. Natural black hair under the brown. Her roots were showing. It was easy reading her. Like an open book.

 

Sherlock bites back a snarky remark regarding whether or not Mycroft had also told them about his little brother. How he wasted his life on drugs?

 

“Pleasure is mine.”

 

Sherlock sits in the chair wrapping his belstaff tightly around him. It had always served him to keep him covered, protected; the Englishman’s modern equivalent of armour, preparing him for battle, or in this case, whatever ordeal Mycroft had sent him into.

 

The unenthusiastic look Sherlock’s face expresses must have been too apparent because the younger man with auburn hair, who had introduced himself as Robert, adjusts his glasses and in a low voice states that they are not going to waste too much of Mr. Holmes’s time.

 

“You know about companions. The little voices in our phones. Keeping our schedules, writing down grocery lists. Waking us up. You have one in your phone right?” The young man, Robert, is jittery. Looks like too much caffeine in one morning.

 

Sherlock nods silently. He has started to like this man. He looks mad enough. The mad ones are the best ones.

 

The mad one continues.

“One year ago, our team had started to work on a different kind of companion. Personalized, besides the basic duties of health check ups and maintaining your social life, more capable of doing chores and on top of everything, is programmed to learn and store and make itself better. It’s capable of adaption. Empathy. Almost like a human being.” The man takes an audible breath.

 

“I am very glad to announce that this version of companion is now actually ready for beta testing. So for the first phase of testing we are going to broaden our horizons. Attach it to different people from different backgrounds, professions, ages, mental states.”

 

“Such as a former drug abuser who is back from rehab.”

 

It wasn’t that hard to understand their intentions. And it is interesting. New things excite Sherlock. Mycroft knew and Sherlock as predictable as he is, took the bait. It is not half bad.

 

“Yes. Absolutely. Nothing to hide from you. You are indeed a perfect candidate but that’s not just for having a past but also because who you are. Someone with a high intelligence. And as we said, it is a beta testing. You don't like using it, you are allowed to discontinue and come to us so we can remove the implants. It is programmed to stop after six months anyway. You can use it full term. Or not. Depends wholly on you.” Robert smiles heartily. His eyes glinting with enthusiasm.

 

One hour later, Sherlock comes out of the building with a silent Mycroft by his side and an earpiece fused with a chip, invisible from outside, under his skin. Just two centimetres inside of his hairline, and a new software in his phone. This companion is hands free. The world is buzzing with possibility and Sherlock feels excited.

 

“You will know the difference as soon as you start to use it, Mr. Holmes.” He had put Male in the choice of voice. Preference British. “The A.I adapts, it learns you, it becomes your friend. When no one else can be.” Sounded perfect. Sherlock Holmes never had a friend anyway.

 

Sherlock takes an unnecessary shower coming back to his new flat. This one is on Montgomery Street. Courtesy of an old client. It was cheap although it was not supposed to be. And although the house held several tenants, luckily none of them were slightly interested in each other. The fireplace was good. The bathroom was better and it had space for everything Sherlock held. Trunks full of old case files, his extensive wardrobe, his odd collectibles and everything else.

 

His heartbeat is accelerated. And he has no clear idea why.  But he certainly had a hypothesis. The thrill of something new. The thrill of getting to experience something before everyone else does. That must be it. Is Sherlock suddenly excited to meet a new _friend_? He prepares himself a cup of tea and something small to eat in order to sustain his transport before he sits himself down on the couch and pulls his mobile from his pocket.

 

He double taps the phone screen. A spiral of soft blue light starts to emerge from the centre. Then the screen goes black. And a question pops up in an ice blue font.

 

**_What do you want me to call you?_ **

 

Sherlock smiles for no reason.

 

**_You can call me Sherlock._ **

 

He types back.

 

A little smiley face appears on the screen. And after the silence of a maximum five seconds, a soft and clear and entirely human voice rings through his ears. Almost startling him at the realness of the voice.

 

“Hello Sherlock. My name is One Zero Two Three. You can call me Ten, Twenty Three or in the full glory of my code number.”

 

The voice chuckles. Like a real human. Which should have been unsettling. It has no mechanical edge in the voice. It’s just like a human male in his early thirties. Sherlock has started to deduce a machine even before he realizes it.

 

“I am going to call you Ten. You okay with that?” Sherlock smiles looking at the floor. He has no idea why he is feeling so cheerful all of a sudden.

 

“More than fine.” The voice laughs. “So what do we do on this fine evening? Order some takeaway? Watch the telly? Or do some idle crime solving?”

 

_Favourite pastime: Consulting the Scotland Yard on crime solving, cursing british television, or conducting unauthorized experiments; mostly with dead bodies or explosive chemicals._

 

“Be honest with your answers.” Robert had said to him. So he was.

 

“Tell me about any unsolved cases you find in the public records happening in London last year.”

 

Nine seconds. Sherlock counts. And then Ten’s warm voice rings in his ear.

 

“There is quite a lot. Do you want me to go through them according to the year or difficulty?”

 

“Surprise me.” Sherlock closes his eyes. An unexpected warmth washes over him. There is something in the humanlike voice. A familiarity. God knows how much he craves it.

 

He forgets about the tea. And the chocolate flavoured biscuit he intended to eat.

 


	2. I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you

“Look who is awake.” The voice is warm. Like home. Like a cup of hot chocolate beside a fireplace on a chilly night.

 

The dark drapes on the window are still down. No way to tell the time judging from the sunlight. Sherlock groans and turns to his side. The bright digits of his clock says it is ten fifty five in the morning.

 

“Nine hours and thirty six minutes. Congratulations. That is the longest you have slept in a whole fucking month. I would actually prefer if you had slept for two more hours but it does not seem like you will. Not that you actually care about my opinion… So I have to...”

 

“Good Morning Ten.” Sherlock rubs his eyes. Struggling to open them. Cutting the voice mid sentence.

 

“Good morning, sunshine.” Ten replies. Unnecessary honey and clear sarcasm in the voice. Making Sherlock smile and wonder once again. God, he almost makes a mistake sometimes. Thinking there is a real human being beside him.

 

“Did I sleep well?” He can deduce that he has. His limbs are feeling extremely relaxed.

 

“Oh yes. Excellent REM cycle. Semi low limb movement, minimum drool. Only if you did that more often.”

 

There is an audible sigh. Sherlock can swear that he is able to feel the warm puff of air except the fact is there isn’t any. There is just a companion program with human like traits talking to him. Sherlock wanted to go back and kiss the madman Robert. Well maybe not really. But it certainly would have displayed the sentiment. He just wants to show his gratitude. And maybe buy Mycroft a cake. This is the first time in his life that he has been happy to be a test subject. And he is not ashamed to admit it.

 

“You have been silent. What are you thinking?”

 

“Nothing.” Sherlock lies. Because for a few seconds he let his mind drift away and imagined how a human version of Ten would look like. He has a weakness for blue eyes. No one can stop him from imagining. Certainly blue eyes then.

 

Sherlock feels goosebumps arise on his skin. It should have been unsettling. But more than one month has passed. And instead of being unsettling, it has slowly become a necessity to Sherlock’s surprise. It is fascinating. How in two days the A.I just understood how stubborn Sherlock is and decided to take the wheel. Ordering and trying to make sherlock fall in a routine. And Sherlock will never accept that his routine has already started changing to a healthier one. But it has. Slightly. Sherlock cannot miss a meal. Even if he eats like a bird. He has to eat and sleep and be healthy for no one.

 

But still it’s funny that how with every word Ten said, every breath Ten took or the way Ten whispered, Sherlock sometimes forgets or forces himself to forget that there is no human being near him. That it is just an artificial intelligence talking back. Just a machine brain.

 

“Your Buccinator muscles are warming up. Are you blushing Sherlock? That is quite adorable. But why are you blushing?” Ten bursts into laughter. Voice ringing through the room. No actually. Only Sherlock can hear it. But it feels like it has lit up every corner of the room, bathing Sherlock in a blanket of warmth and longing.

 

And yes, Sherlock is blushing. All the while gladly thanking the manufacturers that technology is not that much advanced so that companions could read minds. If they could, things would have been clear as a day and Sherlock would find no place to hide.

 

“Can you just stop talking nonsense and bring me to speed about the cases? Did anyone call?”

 

Sherlock snaps to hide his embarrassment. Is he falling for a voice in his head? That is definitely the first step of going crazy. After dressing, he skulks over to the bathroom to begin brushing his teeth.

 

“But I was having fun!” If Ten had a face, Sherlock is sure that he could see that face pouting and hiding a mischievous grin. “Okay as you wish. Detective Inspector Lestrade called. I decided not to wake you up. He left a message There has been another theft. This time, a vintage model of a radio. It was on display at the Blast From the Past Week at the museum. Thoughts?”

 

“Ohhh. Now I get it!” Sherlock forgets to spit out the toothpaste and runs to the drawing room. Yes, of course! It is just part of a bigger picture.

 

“Wash your mouth!” Ten gasps.

 

“I will. First, let me find this before I forget.” Sherlock curses at himself silently because he should have figured it out last night.

 

“And before you forget, eat something.” Ten sounds like a concerned grandmother sometimes. Which is amusing most of the time. Now is not the time though.

 

“No, no, Ten. You don’t understand. I can’t eat now.” Sherlock shuffles through the papers, trying to locate the case file within the vast array of paraphernalia gathered atop the desk.

 

“Why do you always avoid eating? It is one of the most fundamental things and you are seriously thin. Bordering on underweight. It’s not possible for me to physically make you eat while you are reluctant. I am asking nicely. Please eat something, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock has no time to pay attention to whatever Ten is trying to saying or requesting. There is a pattern in the apparently unconnected looking thefts. He has to find it. Nothing else matters.

 

“If I eat now, my body will get busy with digesting the food and my brain will get less attention which I seriously cannot afford. So for the love of everything. Shut up.” Sherlock screams.

 

“That is just you making up excuses to not eat. You sound like a stubborn...”

 

Before he can even think clearly, Sherlock extends his hand onto the table and from the drop down menu of the phone turns off the voice function of the companion. His heart skips an uneasy beat when Ten’s sentence gets cut off mid sentence. A tiny pang of guilt. Like slapping someone on the face when they are concerned for you. It’s just a piece of humanlike software. Not really a human. And he is more rude to real people from time to time…

 

Reasoning doesn’t help the feeling of guilt at all when he brushes his fingers over the knot of the case file he was looking for.

 

An email pops up in his inbox.

 

**_Dear User,_ **

**_If you want to discontinue our service, click on the link below and register your request along with the reason. If you want to continue our service, no need to take any steps. This is an auto generated email sent to you in response to you turning off the service at 11.39 EST._ **

**_Time remaining before auto-discontinuation of current companion service: 140 days, 12 hours and 21 minutes._ **

 

**_With best regards,_ **

**_Neon Dynamics._ **

 

Sherlock deletes the email. Just like the last two times.

 

**

 

“Ten?”

 

No reply.

 

“Ten. Please. I am sorry.”

 

“No, you aren’t.” Ten’s voice snaps.

 

Despite the tone, Sherlock is relieved that Ten is still speaking to him. He stays silent, concentrating on the blue light blinking on his phone.

 

“You should have replied to that email. And made an appointment. If you are so reluctant in using the service.”

 

“I was not gonna do that.” Sherlock murmurs. “It was just more of a heat of the moment thing I am sorry.”

 

Yeah apologizing. That’s a new thing.

 

What the hell.

 

“Please understand this one thing. This health of yours makes every red light wake up in my system. Every standard health code violated! Which is the human equivalent to me being concerned... If I was a standard health issue companion, I would be ringing nine nine nine by now. You are lucky I am not. I just call Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock stands up with a horrified face.

 

“You called Mycroft because I didn’t have my breakfast?!”

 

“Calm down, you git! I was kidding. I try to avoid his presence more than you. The amount of discomfort you show within his proximity makes me wanna crawl the walls as if I have a body.”

 

Another roll of laughter. Like the rumble of a wave smoothing out onto the shore. Contagious. Sherlock feels himself joining in without even realizing first.

 

“But I will next time. As soon as you turn my voice service off next time and don’t reply to any of my texts on screen, in spite of my expected discomfort, there will be a call to Mycroft.”

 

This voice is serious. Almost mechanical. Sherlock hates it.

 

“You have to give me space. I don’t work like other humans you are usually programmed for.”

 

“I give you enough don’t I? And I am not programmed for anyone. I am like a ball of playdough. I will change and become more compatible as I get to understand you more and more. There will be a certain progress in the relationship.”

 

Sherlock chews the inside of his mouth silently.

 

“So whatever you do. Try to listen to me a little. I am not your enemy. I am not constricting your work habit. I am just trying to keep you alive while simultaneously trying to give you the freedom you need.” Ten stops talking.

 

“Won’t happen next time.” Sherlock runs his fingers through his own hair. Sighing because the touch feels good. Again the thought of someone else’s fingers doing so floods his mind. This is pathetic. What has he turned into?

 

“You said the same thing the last two times. But whatever you do, I will have to believe in you anyway, don’t I? It’s a sort of co-dependency. I exist because you want me to. And I help you exist as you want. God. That’s almost romantic!” Ten’s voice is cheerful. Like the companion just solved a hard mathematical problem.

 

Sherlock feels his neck heating up again. Before Ten can realize anything and comment on the sudden temperature rise, Sherlock announces in an extremely bored voice, trying to camouflage the sudden tremble, that he feels heated and is in a dire need of a shower. Alone.

 

The shower represents isolation. The shower is where he has enough time to wash the sweat away and calm his slightly accelerated heartbeat before stepping out and feeling the same, old, warm voice asking him if after drying up that now he should eat the soup he left inside the microwave oven. It’s heated up and ready. And then promises to discuss about the decaying of human body in a nitrogen atmosphere.

 

It's embarrassing and pathetic.Out of everything he came in contact with, out of thousands of people crossing his path, it is an artificial companion who makes him feel the things he had no idea that he had inside. His classmates used to call him a machine. He actually remembers being slightly offended. He was younger. He was still unarguably human.   

 

Oh, the irony of it.

 

**

 

“If I ask you, how do you think, what can you tell me?” The voice breaks the eerie silence of the room. There has been a faulty faucet. The dripping sound makes it hard to concentrate. It has been a hot day all of a sudden. Not letting him to think properly.

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

 

“Thinking is beautiful. It’s like diving in the sea. Where no one can find you. Where you can see no one.”

 

“But to survive, you need to breathe don’t you? Coming to the surface to take the air? ”

 

“Yes I do. What is this sudden concern?”

 

“You pulse rate was low, so was your breathing. I am meant to be concerned. Where did you go?”

 

“To think, to explore.” He sighs.

 

“What is it like there?” _So curious. So much curious._

 

“In my head? It’s messy. And organized. It’s an oxymoron.”

 

“I’d love to know what goes inside that head.”

 

“I bet you will.”

 

_Both of us will love a lot of things which are unattainable._

 

**

  


“Sorry for the absence, brother mine.” Mycroft looks extremely bored sitting on the chair in the living room, umbrella propped up in an imperialism fashion by his knee.

 

Sherlock tried to ignore him for the first five minutes but that proved to be quite impossible. When a pair of eyes follow you, it's an uncomfortable and tangible sensation. And on top of that, Ten kept reminding him of Mycroft’s presence like a broken record. So Sherlock gave up and sat in the opposite chair. Throwing invisible daggers at his elder brother, who for some reason looked quite amused.

 

“Okay. What is it?”

 

“What is… what?” The mock surprise is extremely annoying and Sherlock suppresses an urge to throw something at Mycroft’s smug smile.

 

Sherlock squints his eyes in skepticism which earns him a wider smile from Mycroft. But at last, it makes Mycroft talk.

 

“It has been two months and one week since you got your new companion. And from the looks of it, I think you two are getting along pretty well. Surprising. But I am pleased nevertheless.”

 

“Why is it surprising, Mycroft? You always said I would rather get along with machines than people.” Sherlock shrugs, slumping back in the chair. “I had better friendships with the computers and microscopes and the Infrared machine in my science lab than my lab partner.”

 

“It's not that.” Mycroft sighs in defeat. “I thought you would absolutely loathe the idea of being a test subject. That too with a human voice continuously in your ear. At least the normal ones sound mechanical and machine-like enough to not grow an attachment to.”

 

“Grow an attachment? With a machine?” Sherlock snorts at his elder brother. “Reading those man-machine romance novellas, are you now?”

 

“Those novels are really good by the way. I have read reviews.” The voice in his ear is playful but then all of a sudden it is serious. “Your brother is right though, it happens. Or has a sixteen percent chance of happening. It is a proven fact.”

 

“Oh no. Not you too.” Sherlock groans as he sits up in a subconscious act of defence.

 

“Your companion agrees, right?” A crooked smile slowly appears on Mycroft's face.

 

“You bet he does.” Sherlock flops back in his chair to feign nonchalance.

 

“Attachment is not unheard of, Sherlock. And it is not just a theory.”

 

Mycroft sits up straight from his previously relaxed position on the chair. With an all-knowing grin on his face. Looking amused to make his brother at least partly irritated.

 

“Say whatever you want. But every relationship is reciprocal. When you touch something, it touches you back.”

 

And at that moment Sherlock wants nothing but the earth to open up and devour him whole. Because Mycroft has a point. Mycroft always does. And most of the time Sherlock proves the point right by making a fool of himself. Just as he will this time.

 

“My initial reaction to your brother has been changed. I quite like him. Any human who is as concerned for you as I am instantly earns my likeness.” Ten is laughing. Differently. Sherlock can not put his finger so it. There was something else in the laughter. Hesitance? Fear? Pity?

 

“Oh God, please stop both of you! With all this theory of attachment and man machine bonding, please. I seriously feel like I am going to have a headache.” Sherlock closes his eyes. Groaning.

 

There is some seconds of silence hanging heavily in the middle of the room. Then Mycroft talks, the amusement is long gone. In a slow and extremely soft voice. Very unlike him. Making Sherlock snap his eyes open and stare at him in disbelief.

 

“It’s just… It felt nice talking to you in person again. I… I missed you.” The smile carries a thousand words. Sherlock hates feeling like this. Watching that man vulnerable makes himself feel weak.

 

He doesn’t know how to reply.

 

“Sherlock. In these cases, saying ‘I missed you too’ is the norm. But knowing you, you are unable to do that. For anyone in any situation. So just say that you are glad. He will understand.”

 

Ten’s voice is sympathetic. A soft melody in his ear. Sherlock wants to laugh at the fact that to a machine, he is that predictable.

 

“I am glad.” Sherlock replies. Looking uncomfortable.

 

“Did your companion tell you to say that?” Mycroft is not judging at all.

 

“Yes.” There is no point in lying. His social skills are well known.

 

“I quite like your companion.”

 

“Awwww.” Ten is chuckling. Breaking the heavy mood of the room. Sherlock feels grateful.

 

“He shares the same sentiment, Mycroft.” He realizes he is smiling. Maybe a little too fondly than he usually does.

 

“Okay, I will see myself out. Thank you for your time, Sherlock.” Mycroft stands up. Buttoning his jacket and turning towards the door. But he stops in his tracks just as he nears the entry.

 

“Answer me this, Sherlock. What does it say about a human and their artificial companion when the person starts using human pronouns for that said companion?”

 

“Romance novels again...” Sherlock sighs. “It predominantly can mean only one thing. Attachment. I don’t think any logical mind will ever do that.” He says shaking his head. “Tell me Mycroft is there a way to permanently ban those useless books?”

 

Mycroft turns around slowly. With a very thoughtful expression on his face, he stares at his younger brother for some time.

 

“What is it?” Sherlock takes an audible gulp. What did he say right now? Was that a trick question? Or has he finally pissed Mycroft off.

 

“In my half an hour stay in here, you have referred  to your companion as ‘he’ multiple times, brother mine.”

 

Sherlock feels his fingertips tingling and an unknown sensation in his stomach. It was like the old times, Mycroft catching him red handed in the backyard trying to eat the grass to see if it tastes as delightful as colourful it is to look at. Mycroft always knew where to find him. When to find him. Is there disappointment in his eyes? _You too, brother mine? I had high hopes for you. You call yourself a higher specimen of human?_

 

“Take care, Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft is gone by the time Sherlock finds the ability to move.

 

“Sherlock. He was joking. Statistically eighty percent of the human population attach a human pronoun to their companion. The statistics is higher in this case because my behavior was regulated to resemble a human being. Hence the chance of this happening was highly likely. It does not have to mean anything else.”

 

Ten is logical. As always. He is meant to be logical and all the attributes of an artificial companion and what not .

But the problem is Sherlock Holmes never fell in that larger category. Which is concerning. And it is making him very worried again. The suppressed thoughts nudging at the base of his skull demanding answers. _You know what is happening. Don’t deny it. This is not expected from you. Shame on you, Sherlock. You felt pity for a client who fell in love with his online friend. And what are you now?_

 

Then why isn't he sending an email to stop his services? It is not an obligation. One email and one visit to that building. That is all it will take. No one will say anything. Mycroft won’t look at him with sympathetic and disappointed eyes. He won’t feel like a teenager. There won’t be butterflies in his stomach every time a voice in his ear says good morning to him.

 

So he represses the scream which could help him with the frustration.

 

“Start reading the Williams murder file from the beginning. I think I have missed something.” He knows his tone is harsh.

 

“Okay.”

 

He is most certainly wrong. Because Ten’s voice sounds sad. Which is preposterous.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people. Life has been busy. I wanted to update earlier but I've been so busy that I couldn't gather time to just sit and re read the thing. Also bad habit. Being a perfectionist. I change stuff over and over and never satisfied.
> 
> Lemme know what you think about the chapter. I love hearing from you guys.


	3. I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only

“So, what do you see?”

 

“Ligature marks on wrists, very faint but still there, silk sashes, I presume. Not very tightly bound. Purpose was not extreme immobilization rather something different altogether.”

 

“So you say he had been naughty?” A click of tongue. Ten does that sometimes. Sherlock loves hearing it.

 

“Very much so. Unintentional murder. The man or woman who was giving the service panicked. He must have used one of those internet services. Will be a bit hard to find a deleted search history in a computer programmer's personal computer but I am sure Scotland Yard will find a way.” Sherlock stands up, brushing his coat.

 

“You are brilliant.”

 

“This was nothing.” Sherlock feels his cheeks warming up. God, why still?

 

“I am not talking about this one. Your brain activity is greater than average. Definition of genius. Only thing is that the data is all scrambled in you, not that it’s bad. The thing is, it makes you unique but also less capable.” 

 

“You could have stopped at brilliant, you know.” Sherlock pockets his magnifying glass. Grinning.

 

“Lip muscles are stretching. You are smiling. That’s a good thing. Smiling at my words. You usually smile at dead bodies which in human standards would be creepy.” 

 

“Lestrade says it is.”

 

“He is right. I like the man. He cares for you.”

 

Suddenly out of the chatter of his mind, his own name catches Sherlock’s attention. It is Anderson. In his blue overalls and a very unsatisfied face. Arguing with Lestrade.

 

“What is Sherlock Holmes doing here again?” Has Anderson been always this nasal? Or is Sherlock just noticing this now?

 

What Lestrade replies Sherlock cannot hear but what he can hear is what Sergeant Donovan says next. In a higher and louder voice than usual, clearly intending for Sherlock to hear.

 

“Oh Greg. Please stop making excuses for the freak. You are jeopardizing the crime scene enough already by allowing him here.”

 

Sherlock turns around and starts walking towards the main road. He is not in a mood for a pointless argument. He solved the case. He will text Lestrade about it. He will go back to his flat and make a cup of tea and maybe eat some food and Ten will be satisfied at that. Then he will play the violin and Ten will say how each of his notes has reached perfection. Ninety nine point nine nine percent accuracy. The fireplace will crackle nicely and he will continue hiding the fact that he is growing an unexplainable feeling for the voice in his head.

 

“That word she said,” Ten whispers. Sherlock is so immersed in his own thoughts that he did not notice the unusual silence. Now he notices that Ten was silent the whole time from the crime scene to the main road.

 

“Yes. Freak.” Sherlock sighs while raising his hand for a taxi.

 

“That is an extremely rude word. You do not deserve that word. Why aren't you angry? You get angry at people who act irresponsible at crime scenes but now when someone is insulting you, you are not even a slight bit angry?” His voice is surprised.

 

“I am used to that word. Words like that don’t matter to me. They are just words. People are immature if they let words decide and rule their life.”

 

“But it does to me. I am programmed to understand and evaluate and it makes me upset.”

 

Sherlock chuckles.

 

“Now you are laughing? Why?”

 

“Apparently a chip in my head understands me better than someone who is my own species. What does it say about me? Maybe I am more machine than a human.”

 

“No, I think you are human enough.” Ten replies slowly.

 

“How do you know that? You are just made to interpret data at a slightly modified level. But you are not a human.”  Sherlock shrugs and looks out of the window. The passing lights are a good distraction.

 

“Would that be better?” 

 

“Would what be better?” Sherlock tightens his scarf. 

 

“If I were? A human?”

 

Sherlock bites his lip to stop himself from saying the next words.

 

That yes, it would be. That he wishes that there was a real, warm body beside him at that moment. A real presence. A man’s legs brushing with his. Not this emptiness. Not just a voice in his head. That he can almost make eating a habit if there was someone opposite of him at the breakfast table. He wishes he could fall asleep curled around someone. That when Ten lectures him about the poor nutrient value of canned food and sweet biscuits or argues with him about which movie Sherlock should watch based on his mood, at those moments Sherlock wishes like never before that he could touch Ten. Touch for real. Not just ghost his fingers over the small, scarred incision inside his hairline waiting for a miracle. 

 

That when Ten wakes him up in the morning, he closes his eyes and lets his imagination corrupt him. In those dream like mornings, a calloused hand touches Sherlock’s temple. A pair of thin lips kisses him softly. Warm feelings coil up in his chest and butterflies do not stop fluttering. On those mornings Sherlock asks Ten to leave him alone in a shaky voice. Attempting to even his breathing and slow his heartbeat although he knows that it hides nothing. Not that it matters. Occasional masturbation is part of a healthy regimen according to the companion.

 

In those moments Sherlock hates Mycroft more than ever. Hates himself more.

 

“Not really. No person can tolerate me enough to live with me. So I can’t even afford to think about it.” 

 

“This is what I don’t understand. My logistics say, apart from your eating habits and fondness of risky scenarios, you are a perfect specimen of a human being. Why people hate you I will never get.”

 

“Yes, you will never get. So stop thinking about it and please give me some minutes of silence.” Sherlock snaps.

 

“I am sorry. I will leave you alone.”

 

Sherlock bites his lip, cursing at his apparent weakness.

 

Less than three months left. Unfortunately, Sherlock doesn’t know how to make time stop. It’s a pity.

  
  


***

  
  


“Sherlock?”

 

“Mm...hmm?”

 

“You have alarmingly less friends than the average person.”

 

“Mmmm yesss, that is an established fact.” Sherlock nods absentmindedly. 

 

“I understand why. It’s because you say the truth. In a partially bit not good way. People don’t like that.”

 

“Know a lot about humans do you?” Sherlock replies chewing on the end of his pen.

 

“I am not your average companion, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock does not reply.

 

“You have a new e-mail.” Sherlock hates this version of voice Ten sometimes brings up.

 

“From whom?”

 

“Neon Dynamics.”

 

“Delete.”

 

He knows perfectly what is in the mail. Only two and a half months left. He has already done the unimaginable. Forgot about all his pride and one fine morning called Mycroft asking him to try to extend the current companion service. The reply from the company was as expected, (miracles are myth after all), it was a prototype. Limited life. No way to replicate again as it is. Too costly and complicated and that is why the company is thinking about abandoning the project altogether. Sherlock sometimes forgets that his brother does not hold all the power in the United Kingdom. He often wishes that he did.

 

Mycroft called him to tell him about the response. With each word Sherlock wished to bury his head in the sand like ostriches do, where the world just fades from his view. He is used to rejection. But this one felt like too much. 

 

In a few days there will be no Ten. Sherlock is not ready for that. And the worst is that he is not ready to admit it.

 

“The pathologist in the morgue fancies you, I think. She stutters every time she sees you. But if I am not wrong you do not share the same sentiments. The main reason being you are not interested in women.”

 

“You are absolutely right.” Sherlock clicks the pen closed.

 

“I think she is in love with you. Poor girl. Love is a funny thing. People can love food, good music, can love a nice walk in the evening. Can love a person. Can love an idea. It is the most common human emotion and very amusing. The closest I can understand love is the theory of attachment and that does not even cover a quarter of love’s actual meaning.”

 

“It is complicated.” Sherlock murmurs. Closing his eyes and letting his strained back find comfort on the sofa.

 

“Have you ever been in love, Sherlock?”

  
  


“No.” He lies.

 

“Sing me a song.” Sherlock does not know why he demands that. 

 

The low hum that rumbles through his ear might be the best melody he has ever heard. The tune is unknown, soft. And makes him feel lighter.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Look at the freak. Murmuring to himself. Has he gone completely off the rails? Or does he not realize that he is not talking to his phone?” 

 

Sally looks something between alarmed and disgusted. The Yard does not know about the trial. Sherlock does not want them to know either. Lestrade knows. He is not very prone to oversharing.

 

“Isn’t it better to tell them about the trial than letting them assume that you are crazy?’

 

“Nope.” Sherlock replies, popping his lip and exaggerating the p in a lazy drawl.  

 

“Ok. As the superior wishes.”

 

“Shut up.” Sherlock pockets his magnifying glass.

 

“Will our kind Lord be kind enough to make us happy by eating something at lunch?”

 

“I fancy something sweet.” Sherlock stands up stretching.

 

“Tiramisu?”

 

“Perfect.”

 

“Today is a perfect day. Praise the Lord.”

  
  


Sherlock remembers the mail that came in this morning. Two months left of this odd domesticity.

  
  


***

  
  


“What do you think about the stars, Ten?”

 

“Balls consisting of gaseous compounds. Fascinating things. What do you think?”

 

“I think they are beautiful to look at.”

 

“Pardon me, Sherlock but I thought you did not care about the solar system.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

 

A roll of laughter bursts through his ears. Sherlock can not help joining in.

 

“Stars are quite romantic, you know.” 

 

The laughter melts into a breathy whisper.

 

Sherlock stays silent. Taking an unnecessary gulp. Ten continues in that hushed tone. Like the voice in which people share secrets. Like if the tone is a bit higher, people will hear it.

  
  


“Died thousands of years ago. But the light they left, is still reaching us. It’s like dying but still leaving a part for their loved ones. What is that, if not romantic?”

 

Sherlock feels something in his throat. A lump not letting him breathe. 

 

“It’s quite cold. Weather forecast said it might snow. What are you still doing outside?”

 

It is snowing. Snow melting on Sherlock’s coat.

 

“Nothing.”

 

_ I am making memories. _

 

“Will you miss my presence, Sherlock?” Ten’s voice sounds raspy. Sherlock feels a massive amount of regret. And does not know what to answer. Because if he starts answering he will never stop. And he is not willing to admit to anything. He is too proud for that. After all.

 

“There will not be nothing left of me. Maybe my system core will be melted down as scrap. Or modified for something new. But if there was something left, this sodding silicone brain and all the artificial neurons will forever remember Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock feels a drop of water falling from the corner of his eyes. It turns colder as it falls down and then turns into ice on his cheek.

 

“Ten, will you sing your song please?”

 

That soft melody and low hum again. He is going to miss this. Everything.

 

One month, one day. Things are worse than before.

  
  


***

  
  


It’s the day before Christmas. Sherlock makes every second count. He chatters with Ten about unnecessary topics. He fixes a meal for himself while Ten instructs. He calmly listens about the nutritional value of each vegetable in his salad. He makes Ten read boring case files. To keep the voice itched in his head.He takes a very quick shower. Trying to waste less time.

 

When it is one hour left to midnight, he makes a cup of tea and sits on his chair. Wrapping the blanket around himself while his eyes burn. Not from sleeplessness. He is sure of that. This is what heartbreak feels like. Now he knows. 

 

He clears his throat and Ten stops talking about the thermodynamics of spontaneous human combustion.

 

“I need to say this.” He says to the empty room. His fingertips tingle. And a hollowness in his chest makes his whole body ache. Why does it hurt to lose something that was never there in the first place?

 

“Yes?”

 

“This is the closest I’ve come to feeling romantic love with anyone. I would say I loved you but that hurts my pride. To say it to an artificial companion. A machine. I loathe those stories. You know me...” 

 

Sherlock tries to chuckle but to his own ears it sounds like a feeble attempt to camouflage the tear he is holding up.

 

A long sigh in his ears. Sherlock tilts his neck as if he can feel the breath ghosting over his neck. 

 

If only.

 

How much time left? He can’t look now. 

 

“Theory of attachment. I am extremely sorry to say that you fell in the larger category. This was not intentional Sherlock. But it was expected.”

 

“Hardly your fault.” 

 

Sherlock presses a finger to his temple. His head is throbbing. He wants this to end but not really. He just wants this agony to be over. The moment is stretching like a rubber band and he wants nothing but to cut it at the middle. But also not.

 

He sits in the silence with a cold cup of tea in front of him. His feet are cold. He forgot to put on socks. 

 

“Take care of yourself. The average companion does a fine job of keeping their owner alive. Let it do its duty, ok?”

 

“Ok.”

 

Sherlock can not manage any more words because he feels sick. He wants to vomit everything he has. Every emotion. Everything he didn’t say but should have. Everything that didn’t matter but actually did. 

 

One minute left.

 

“Goodbye Sherlock Holmes. It was a privilege to serve you as your companion.”

 

Sherlock feels every muscle in his body freeze as with a soft melody of music, the constant blue light on his phone goes off. 

 

He realizes that he did not say goodbye.

 

The room goes silent. He loses track of time. Then his phone beeps at an incoming mail. And he comes back to his senses again.

 

**_Dear User,_ **

 

**_Thank you for participating in the trial. Your cooperation is highly appreciated. For further questions, contact us via email. For Standard model companions, visit our website. A companion software for everyone’s need._ **

 

**_With best regards,_ **

**_Neon Dynamics._ **

  
  


Sherlock discovers that night that smartphones are not as unbreakable as they look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will you believe me when I say I forgot I had a fic to update. Life is so busy sometimes. I am leaving for a vacation tomorrow. Next two chapters will be there after that. Please don't hate me. Lots of love :*


	4. I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again

> **_I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone…_ **

 

 

 

Nobody asks him about Ten. No one says his name. No one asks Sherlock how he is coping. And Sherlock knows how absurd the expectation sounds like. Because why would anyone? Who knew the whole of it? And even if they knew, who even imagined the extent of the whole unfortunate situation? Sherlock himself didn’t.

 

Sometimes, he is not sure if the past six months really happened or if it was just a figment of his vast imagination, something he cooked up in his post-rehab brain to cope with the loneliness. In those moments, a sudden panic rises in his chest and he ends up having a few seconds of an existential crisis but then his fingers touch the removal scar. The faint hint of raised skin assures him. He touches it and sits like that for a long time. He imagines a voice humming in his ear. He hums the song himself. And he knows it was real. The past six months were simultaneously the best and worst times of his life. 

 

He thinks he almost forgot what Ten sounded like. Like sunshine? The first rainfall of the year or the calm ocean? Mostly things that reminded him of calmness or solitude. It was like being alone with someone else, lest it be just a voice in his head. A very human one.

 

He has stopped putting voice alarms on his phone. It is almost physically painful to wake up to any other voice except the one he loved. The disturbing noise of the default rooster alarm makes him want to throw the alarm clock. But it’s better than another voice. Any other voice is unwelcome in this flat.

  
  
  


On the days when it has been a tad too exhausting than usual, when Anderson’s comments have been too snarky so he had to reply harshly; on the nights when his head is killing him with thoughts, everything becomes unbearable, he dives inside his mind and revives the memories. The ones he made with Ten. The conversations. Every breath, every chuckle. His own weakness infuriates him. But he is unable to do anything efficacious in the coldness of the flat. He hums the song and feels a little less alone and a lot more miserable.

  
  


There is something wrong with the flat. He can not put his finger on it. But it feels like something is off.

 

He realizes what it is when he meets his former client Mrs. Hudson on the way from the supermarket. It was years ago when he last saw her. He saved her from her husband. 

 

“Sherlock. Good God, how long has it been?” 

 

Then she is hugging Sherlock. Sherlock hasn't been hugged by anyone for years. The gesture is soothing and it assuages his melancholy spirit quite quickly being in her presence.

 

She tells him again and again about how grateful she is. She is as warm and lovely as always with her plum coloured lipstick and smile lines around her eyes. She holds his hand and invites him for tea. He carries her heavy bags and feels a genuine bout of happiness as he enters the building. Over the tea and delicious homemade pastries, she talks about how she misses the weather of Florida and about the empty upper floor of her flat. Last tenants were a nightmare. Will Sherlock be interested to live there? She could use a familiar face.

 

And then at that very moment Sherlock realizes he can’t live in the flat at Marylebone Road anymore. Because memories. They are becoming unbearable. He wakes up and expects a voice being pleased for his ten hour long sleep. He laughs reading the newspaper at the breakfast table and expects a laugh in return. He snaps at his brother standing by the door and expects someone to correct him. Scold him. Tell him that it is a bit not good. The loneliness and constant silent reminders suffocating him. 

 

“I will have a discount for you, Sherlock. What do you say? Wanna have a look at the upper floor?” Her voice is cheery and filled with a palpable sense of hope and genuinity. 

 

Sherlock obliges and follows her up the seventeen steps into the flat. A door creaks open. 

 

It looks… cozy. Big enough. And not full of memories. 

 

It will mean paying a bit more but Mrs. Hudson is familiarity. Familiarity over everything. Most of the time.

 

“I will move in by next week then.” He announces after scanning the flat quickly. 

 

Mrs. Hudson is delighted and drags him to her kitchen for a round of tea and freshly baked apple pie.

  
  


***

 

“This flat is cleaner than your previous one but I am afraid that you will end up making a mess of it. Such a nice flat. How much is the rent anyway? Isn’t it too big for you to live in alone?”

 

Lestrade is walking around and asking questions without waiting for an answer. Well, not like Sherlock would answer him anyway.

 

“Are you expecting a cup of tea? I am not making it. You can ask my landlady. The one who lives in the flat downstairs and denies being my housekeeper.” Sherlock says in a bored voice.

 

“Nahh. Not really fancying a cuppa. Needed to show you this case. Unusual. Have a look?”

 

Sherlock thanks Lestrade non-verbally with a grunt. He watches Lestrade with his peripheral vision and notices that he is lingering. 

 

“Are you okay?” Lestrade is concerned.

 

“Yes, I am”

 

“Good for you.” 

 

Sherlock doesn't move until the car outside drives away and is far away from the vicinity of his flat. 

 

***

 

It is fall. The park is looking like a picture on a postcard. A little bit unreal.

 

Sherlock’s companion on the phone reminds him to eat. Sounding exactly like a companion does. Inhuman. So he does. A glazed donut. Sitting on the bench. Not because he wants to obey the voice. But because he kept a promise to someone else. Or something else. He is not sure. 

 

It has been months. And a faceless voice is slowly becoming a surreal part of his brain. It may have happened. May not have. Knowing for sure will not make it any easier. So he doesn’t even try.

 

Sherlock almost waits for praise after finishing his lunch. Then he curses himself for expecting anything at all.

  
  


***

 

He once decides to ask Mrs. Hudson about how people should feel after losing a loved one. Then decides against it. It will only raise more questions. And God knows how absurd the premise is anyway.

 

On that evening, after solving a hard case which was troubling him for a whole week, he feels very happy and buys takeaway for the first time in months. Beef with oyster sauce. He almsot licks the takeaway package clean. Then flops on the sofa.

 

A satisfied laugh. A voice from far away. Like heard in a dream long ago.

 

“Shut up!” He snaps at the empty room then realizes his mistake. He clenches his jaw and starts to arrange case files in his mind.

  
  


***

 

It is Christmas Eve, he sits by the window most of the day. It's a white Christmas. Mrs. Hudson bakes him a cake and other sweet pastries and desserts. He just registers the tastes. Deletes the names.

 

“I love Christmas. Don't you, Sherlock? Especially this time of year everything looks so pretty.”

 

“Not really. I don't like it.” 

 

He slowly sips the ginger ale.

 

The scar on his head itches. 

 

“The cake?” Mrs. Hudson looks hopeful.

 

“I love the cake, Mrs. Hudson.” 

 

He smiles at the loving woman genuinely. Then patiently listens to her while she talks about her childhood. He hates small talk. But not today. Today, he can't afford to be alone.

 

It is not a real itch. Imaginary. It has to be.

  
  


***

 

He throws a tantrum at the morgue of Bart's Hospital on January 15th. Molly almost kicks him out. He doesn't apologize. He comes home and buys an expensive dressing gown online. Puts it on Mycroft’s credit card. When Mycroft calls him in the evening, he does not mention it. Instead Mycroft asks him about how his health is. He gives a very rude reply. Mycroft sounds drunk.

 

“Attachments are extremely bad when you can’t handle it. Be safe, brother mine.”

 

Sherlock's companion, Billy, reminds him that it is Mycroft’s birthday the next day.

  
  


***

 

The blood was not overly present within the evidence. It was a struggle scraping that bit out. But it is a success. He feels very happy. Elated. 

 

Sherlock hears two pairs of shoes in the hallway. One familiar. Heavy footsteps. Slow. Has to be Mike. It’s almost time for his shift.

 

But the other set. It has something else in it. Something he does not get to hear everyday. A certain added quality which distinguishes it from the mundane footsteps around him.

 

He flicks his eyes at the door when it swings open. As expected, Mike. And behind him a man with a walking stick. A man with not sharp but subtle features. Before he can start deducing who the man might be, something happens. And a lot of things follow behind.

 

The stranger takes a look around the laboratory. No expression on his face. And talks.

 

“Bit different from my day.” 

 

And suddenly, the world stops spinning. It freezes as it is. Like the air changing into amber and keeping everything in place. As it is. Alive. But inanimate.

 

Sherlock feels like he is frozen in liquid nitrogen.

 

Because that voice. He knows it. Like he knows the back of his hand. Or the periodic table. 

 

That voice was with him. Every moment. For six months. Then left him.

 

Sherlock suddenly wants to vomit. Because this cannot be happening. He knows he is putting too much pressure on the pipette in his hand. It might shatter with the intensity of his grip but he doesn't care because the world feels unreal and he feels like a fool.

 

Because the voice he knew by the name of Ten, is standing in front of him. With a human body. Human eyes, human mouth, human clothing. A walking stick. Military cut hair. Stern expression.Tanned face although not visible above wrists. Abroad. 

 

And real. Very much real.

 

And very, very, blue eyes.

 

The man stops talking and his eyes roam around the lab. Sherlock needs him to talk again. To make sure that he must have been wrong.

 

He asks Mike for his phone. Because Mike rarely brings phone in his coat pocket. Maybe he will get lucky. Maybe Mike doesn't have his phone with him right now.

 

And boy, does he get lucky.

 

“Er, here. Use mine.” Blue Eyes says. Offering Sherlock his phone in his hand.

 

A jolt of electricity runs through Sherlock because he has confirmed it now. He was not wrong. This man indeed has the same voice. And the same nonchalant manner of talking. 

 

But how the fuck is that possible?

 

His hand trembles when he takes the phone from Blue Eye’s hand. But he conceals it very professionally. And tries to understand the man in front of him. Soldier. Back from combat. Psychosomatic limp. Doctor. Wounded in action.  

 

His name is John. John Watson.

 

And Sherlock has no doubt that this is the same man (albeit same voice and personality, and even the way he sniffs?). 

 

Sherlock does not remember what he actually does next but he remembers winking at the man who looked baffled when he deduced some very personal and human things about him. But he can not understand anything about how that man’s voice practically lived with him for six months. He just subtly makes sure that he will meet him at the flat. He needs him to. Yes, flatmate. The man is very conveniently looking for a flat and Sherlock happens to have a flat to share. No, not just a man…  _ John. _

 

He tries to keep his legs steady when he walks out of the room. And fishes out his own phone from his coat pocket. His fingers tremble while he tries to text Mycroft.

  
  


**I met a man just now. He sounds and talks exactly like the advanced model of companion I had in my head for six months. I need an explanation. ASAP -SH**

 

Mycroft replies in thirty seconds.

 

**I will get back to you soon.**

 

Mycroft calls him in the evening. Sherlock receives the call with shaky hands and a fluttering heart because he is not sure if he is ready to know. What explanation can there be?

 

“So this was supposed to be classified information and they skipped that part while explaining how this companion works. Turns out Dr. Watson volunteered for a personality capture study done by the army and that data was used to make that special class of companions. In other cases, the voices are generally computer generated.” Mycroft sighs.

 

Sherlock stays silent. 

 

Oh. Then he is the same.

 

“He was not scheduled to return for a few more years.” Mycroft is talking again.

 

“But the injury...” Sherlock murmurs.

 

“Yes, the unscheduled injury is why he is back in London earlier than expected. Don’t worry, he has no idea about what the future of the test conducted on him was. But I presume you will feel a little uncomfortable around him? Given the nature… I can give you some affordable options that you can suggest to him.”

 

“No!” Sherlock shouts hastily.

 

“No, what?” Sherlock can feel the frown on Mycroft’s face.

 

“I… I have no problem if he agrees to live with me.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice is cautious. “this has the potential to end badly.”

 

“I said I have no problem.” Sherlock repeats through gritted teeth and then ends the call.

 

***

  
  


And he really doesn’t have any problems. Because Ten a.k.a John a.k.a the man with soft jumpers and blue eyes and a love for all things dangerous is what Sherlock needed in his life. This is what he was missing all along. A second chance. And he will use it wisely. Because miracles are rare and he can see one happening right now.

 

As wisely as he can while he is desperately trying to not fall in love with him and failing at that.

 

It’s harder when he saves you over and over. Selflessly. Because John is ridiculous. A madness that is a match with his own.

  
  


***

 

John is just as he imagined in those lucid dreams. Actually more than that. 

He calls him stupid. Makes the breakfast. Makes him eat it. Surprisingly, rarely makes the tea. And saves Sherlock. From everything. Like he is making up for all the months of not being there physically.

 

John's companion is named Mary. Just another cold mechanical voice reminding him about his psychiatric appointments and work days at the clinic. Sherlock hates it.

 

***

 

“You are a madman.” John tells him breathlessly when they try to catch their breath after a rather stupid case. 

 

Sherlock could not catch the man he was trying to. He doesn’t mind. Nothing matters when John is beside him and laughing and his face is pink and he smells like sweat, adrenaline, and things that Sherlock does not know the name of but definitely needs. John looks at him differently. Like suddenly Sherlock has grown another nose.

 

Sherlock needs to kiss him desperately. But he does not dare to. He will wait for John to be ready.

  
  


***

  
  


“Can you stop calling him that?” 

 

It’s John. Snapping at Anderson.

 

“What?” Anderson did not imagine the protest. At least from a man who does not look dangerous from the outside. Sherlock never protested. But people often underestimated the marvel that was John Watson. 

 

“He does enough for you. Without him you would have been left in vain.” The whole yard looks at them like someone dropped a bomb. Anderson twists his face and with a huff walks away. 

 

“Thank you.” Sherlock murmurs during the ride home. Pressing his hand over John’s and removing it immediately. So it does not mean anything else than just a thank you. He does not want to make John feel uncomfortable.

 

“What for?” John’s eyes are dark. Glinting with the reflections of the passing neon signs.

 

“For standing up to Anderson. No one does that usually. Lestrade tries sometimes.”

 

“You do not deserve that word.”

 

A slight pressure on his hands. Sherlock feels the warmth even through the leather gloves he’s wearing. And hates himself for putting on the gloves in the first place.

  
  


***

 

Sherlock complains about the lack of interesting cases in the newspaper. John wonders why does Sherlock care about the aesthetic quality of stars. Sherlock laughs and does not say anything else. John laughs too. And Sherlock feels content. Then John stands up. Takes the two empty breakfast plates with him and brushes his hand over Sherlock's head before walking to the kitchen. 

 

Sherlock sits there with a red face and his ears go deaf with all the blood rushing like crazy and his heart threatens to come out of his chest. 

 

***

 

“I have had enough of this Sherlock!” John is screaming and standing in the middle of the room. “I can't live like this!”

 

Sherlock blew up a brain in the kitchen. It really was a bit too much. Now he understands.

 

Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me.

 

“I promise that I won't do this again, John. Sorry. Please don't leave me. This flat I mean. Here.” He mumbles like a fool.

 

“You are not really good with keeping promises so I don't even know why I even bother in the first place.” John closes his eyes. Frustration clear on his face. Sherlock wants to smooth the wrinkles between his brow with his fingertips. 

 

“And who said anything about leaving you big, royal idiot. I am not going anywhere.”

 

Sherlock sighs in relief.

  
  


***

 

“Am I your only friend?” John narrows his eyes. It’s afternoon. A very uncomfortable and sticky day.

 

“Yes. Same applies to you.”

 

“No, I have friends besides you.”

 

“Do you now?” Sherlock huffs. Not meeting John’s eye.

 

“Oh my God, are you jealous?” John is laughing. Actually giggling.

 

“No.” Sherlock scowls. And fails at being believable. Because yes, he realizes that he is always extremely selfish and possessive about John. He made John’s phone companion malfunction twice already. He throws invisible daggers at anyone who tries to show their interest at John. His John. 

 

“Oh God, you are blushing too. That’s so adorable, Sherlock!” This time John has burst with laughter. Wiping his tears. Trying to not laugh and ending up in another fit.

 

Sherlock stomps away to work on the stolen fingers from the morgue. Blushing more furiously. 

  
  


***

  
  
  


And one night. After Sherlock is bubbling from energy and feeling full from the dinner. They watch James Bond. Slowly Sherlock forgets the movie playing (not that he was paying much attention in the first place) and becomes very aware of a hand on his back. Fingers playing with his hair and then going down steadily. Settling on his neck. And the distance between them slowly closing. John’s jumper smells like mothballs. And hospital disinfectant. Sherlock has goosebumps all over his skin. It is not even chilly. His throat becomes dry.

 

Then there is James Bond doing very unrealistic stunts on the tv. Sherlock does not even bother to comment on it. Because he does not want to spend any more of his time on explaining that stupidity and also the fact is that his mouth is quite occupied.

 

John is on his lap (he does not remember when that happened, sometime between John putting his fingers inside his shirt and Sherlock forgetting to breathe), keeping him in his place and kissing him. Tasting like the sweet and sour chicken they had just half an hour ago.

 

“I have wanted this for so long.” John whispers in his mouth. Warm breath and a warmer tongue over his face, neck, the sensitive little place behind his ears he wasn't aware of. He moans involuntarily and it sounds embarrassing in his ears but instead of getting discouraged by the unattractive whine, John gets more encouraged and hooks his finger in the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms.

 

“Tell me that you want it too.” John's voice is shaky.

 

“Yes.” Is the only word Sherlock can manage and thankfully it's affirmative. John smiles at him mischievously. And he looks too beautiful in that instant. Sherlock's heart misses a lot of beats.

 

And later that night, after John has reduced him to a whimpering mess, dragging sounds out of him Sherlock never knew that he had inside, his room smells of sex, sweat, the one cigarette John allowed him and John's lemon-scented shampoo, Sherlock looks at the wall. One of John's hands is wrapping him from behind. John’s softened cock touching his naked butt. And John's hand on his chest, over his heart. His body aches in a very pleasant way.

 

Sherlock eyes prickle. He feels like crying in happiness. Perhaps John senses something in his sleep explaining why John clutches him tighter to his chest. Smashing his face into the back Sherlock's neck.

 

“Sleep, you git. I can feel that you are awake.” John mumbles. And Sherlock obeys. Because that is the way it was. The way it should always be. John beside him. Guiding him.

 

***

 

The first time John gives Sherlock a blowjob, he calls John Ten by mistake. Well not really a mistake. Thankfully John doesn’t notice it. Or maybe he does and cancels it as Sherlock’s brain malfunctioning as a result of that blowjob. He smiles smugly and continues. Sherlock promises himself to be more cautious.

 

Sherlock does as much as he can to not mention his previous one sided encounter with another version of John. Because it might not be uncomfortable for him. But it might be for John. It is not that difficult. Just like hiding a small marble. 

 

John places kisses on his hair. 

 

“What's this?” 

 

It's the scar.

What Sherlock wants to say is that ‘it is where you first touched me’. 

But what he says is, “That was a splinter.”

 

John smiles and kisses there again. Unknowingly reenacting his first touch.

 

***

 

It’s during a case. It’s a warehouse. It’s the middle of the night. There is a loud noise of a blunt object hitting something softer. Sherlock watches in horror as John falls like a leaf onto the dirty floor. Everything is happening so fast yet so slowly. His brain is trying to react to what he’s seeing. And he is scared. He can’t lose him again. This was his second chance. He was supposed to keep him safe.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I am back from my holidays. I enjoyed a lot. Have a ache in whole body. Have a nasty tan because sun is worse in hills but god I was so happy there. I hope you guys are okay and don't hate me haha. Lots of love <3


	5. I am to see to it that I do not lose you

They had unparalleled sex the morning before the accident. John drew out every moment, each little sensation. The bed was a mess. Both of them too. Sherlock's whole body was aching. But it was a pleasant type of ache. The one you long for. He craved more of that, in every way, for the rest of his life.

 

“That is enough for one morning in my opinion.” John had laughed as Sherlock nuzzled his neck. “That was good Sherlock. Very good.” 

 

John had sighed and cradled the back of Sherlock’s neck so tenderly that it made Sherlock want to cry. John’s hair was tousled in such a cute way that Sherlock’s heart had ached. How many mornings did he dream of waking up to that voice? With the man, if there was a man, beside him?

 

“Never leave me.” He murmured, breathing in the scents of John. Clean skin, a patina of sweat and the stale scent of sex. He could see the faint golden chest hairs glimmer in the sunlight.

 

“Where is that question even coming from?” 

 

Sherlock couldn't see John's face but he knew that was a bit out of blue. John had no idea from where the insecurity was coming from. 

 

“I am just...” He had tried to reason.

 

“What are you afraid of? I always see this fear in your eyes. Do I ever give the impression that I might be leaving you?” John's hands were tender and soft and all the things he wanted. All the warmth he missed. And never had. The hand on his head was caressing and reassuring with its touch. No, he is not going anywhere. 

 

“Nothing John. It's nothing. It's just me being stupid and paranoid.” He had murmured into John's skin. The daylight danced in the room. Bursting the bubbles of insecurity.

 

“Don't forget possessive.” John was laughing. “You practically hiss at anyone who even smiles at me. Don't deny it. You know you do that.” John's fingers were hypnotic. Awakening and calming every nerve and muscle in his scalp. 

 

“I am not denying it. It is the truth.” Sherlock had kissed the little white scar on John's neck. John had called him a truthful, humble git and Sherlock pointed out the paradox in that nomenclature. John made a false grunting noise. Sherlock felt like he couldn't be any more in love.

 

“I just want you for my own.”

 

***

 

“Is he going to be alright?” He knows that his voice is not normal and he is actually screaming at the man who is trying to take John's pulse. But he has to make sure. John hadn't made a noise since the blow to his head. There is blood caked on his hair. Some of it on Sherlock's coat. Some on his hand. Along with some blond hair.

 

“Please Sir, we need you to calm down.” The man beside him raises his hand and touches his shoulder. Sherlock flinches.

 

“Don't tell me to calm down! Just answer me! How is his pulse?! My hands were shaking and I couldn't take his pulse before you arrived.”  

 

“Sherlock.” It's Lestrade. Walking besides him hurriedly.

 

“His pulse is weak, Sir. But he might have a concussion. Do you want to go in the ambulance with us?” 

 

“I...” He doesn't know. He is feeling like a five year old again. His toy soldier broke and he cried and he cried and cried until Mycroft showed up. 

 

“Go with them.” Lestrade pats his arm.

 

“I think I need to call Mycroft, Lestrade.To see that John gets...”

 

Mycroft had smiled and put his broken soldier back together once. 

 

“Let me have the honour. Go with them.” Greg takes out his phone and begins to dial a number he knows off by heart due to his various years dealing with Sherlock.  

 

John is lying on the stretcher with his eyes shut. They say he is going to be alright. He looks younger and so very little.

 

He holds John's hand and realizes he never said I love you to him. Between the many words, those three never made any appearance. He said it enough with everything he did. But not in words.

 

What if John never wakes up? What if like a fool he missed the precious second chance he was given? 

 

_ I lost you once. Can’t lose you again. _

  
  


***

 

“Mrs. Hudson, How many times must you ask? I am not feeling any signs of a headache. But if you keep mentioning it, I might have one.” John looks done. There is a small bundle of bandages on his head. And that makes him look absolutely harmless.

 

“Okay, I will not mention it again but you young man need to eat more. You look so thin.” Mrs. Hudson turns around to put the pot on the slightly cleaned kitchen table.

 

“Mrs Hudson, I am sure I gained a few pounds…” John almost cries. “All the food you and Sherlock keep pushing on me. It has been just one day since I’ve been back and I feel like I won't need to eat for another year.”

 

“You will love this casserole. Beef and rosemary. Sherlock, make sure he eats it. And you, John make sure that he eats it too.” Mrs Hudson completely ignores the whole segment of John's talk and walks out of the door.

 

“I am going to get fat if you two keep this up.” It's intended for Sherlock. Who is silent the whole time enjoying John’s distress. 

 

“I think she cares, doesn’t she?” Sherlock smiles at John. 

 

“You  _ think _ ? Really? Of course she does, stupid.” 

 

“What would I do without you John? Without you guiding me through all human interactions and whatnot?”

 

Sherlock let's out a fake sigh. But the sentiment behind it is real. John knows it.

 

Then John is smiling at him. That wide and bright enough to rival the sun kind of smile and Sherlock’s chest gets full of fulfilment. And his stomach full of butterflies.

 

“Come here.” There is a lopsided grin on John’s face. The one which always has a sure effect on Sherlock. That fucker bloody knows.

 

What option does Sherlock even have?

 

It’s a struggle fitting two adult males into John’s chair. And Sherlock’s mild protest about how John had a concussion and it will not be a good idea for Sherlock to sit on his lap right now dawns on John.

 

Then it’s a mess of limbs and body weight on the chair. But it’s fine. Sherlock ignores his awkward position. He is kneeling and it’s gonna hurt soon but really who cares? He just needs to keep his head high and John needs to keep his head a bit low and they are sharing breaths. He hasn’t been this close to him for days. Since the morning they had sex. John’s thighs are warm. 

 

“Greg told me you were frantic.” John’s tender hand tucks an erratic lock behind his ear. He leans into the hand.

 

“About what?”

 

“When I was senseless.”

 

Sherlock stays silent.

 

“You were scared and crying and looked like ‘a lost puppy’. Greg’s words. Not mine.” John is not mocking. His eyes are tender. Is that love?

 

“I am going to kill him.” Sherlock groans and smashes his face on John’s thigh. Mint soap. Familiarity.

 

“I am going to say something now. And there is no pressure to reply. But I think it is time I say it.” Sherlock looks up to see John biting his lip sheepishly. Eyes clear and sure.

 

Sherlock does not say anything but silence is agreement enough. Two heartbeats pass. Then five more.

 

“I love you.” 

 

And Sherlock almost hates that John says it first. In the six months of their being physically together. Those three words. He should have been the one.

 

“Sherlock. You are not breathing, love. I said no pressure.” Calloused fingers brush against his jaw. And Sherlock realizes indeed he is not breathing and his mouth is gaping open like a dead fish. It’s a miracle that John is not repulsed.

 

“I love you too.” He blurts out.

 

And it’s like seeing the universe being born. John’s face lights up slowly. Sherlock savours each moment. Each major and minor change in the muscles. The way the crinkles around his eyes deepen. It’s mesmerizing.

 

“Here’s to confessions at last.” John smiles and lowers his face. His eyes fixated on Sherlock’s lips.

 

Sherlock is more than happy to oblige. He straightens up and lets John do the rest. Sweet kisses. Tasting of ginger biscuits. Then more pressure, tangled tongues and breathless states. 

 

“I’ve missed you.” He says in between kisses. John doesn’t say anything. But the fervour in his kisses and the way he leans on and clutches Sherlock closer, Sherlock knows that he feels the same.

 

When Sherlock puts his hand over the waist of John's pyjama bottoms, John licks his lips. When he slowly pulls them down, John chuckles and slowly bucks his hips. And makes a comment about how this is the only medicine he needs. Sherlock looks into blue eyes and falls in love again.

  
  


***

  
  


He feels cheerful that evening. And decides to make dinner in spite of John’s weak protest. It’s a romantic thing. It’s what people do. They declared something this morning. It certainly calls for a celebration. At least one dish. He can manage it. John loves pasta.

 

Too immersed in his thoughts about John and everything else concerning John he doesn’t realize what he is humming.

 

Footsteps approach from their bedroom and stop at the door of the kitchen. John has had his rest.

 

“John, what should we open? The Moscato that the client... ”

 

He turns around and his words die in his throat. John is standing there. Like a marble statue. In his pyjamas. Disheveled hair and eyes wide. And a look of something in his eyes that Sherlock only can decipher as someone’s expression as if they saw a ghost.

 

“John. What is it?” He takes a gulp, scared.

 

John links his eyes for a moment and slowly lifts his hand in a confused way. 

 

“How the hell do you know that tune?”

 

How could he be so stupid? How? God, he left his mind unguarded and happy for a while and from the depth of his memory something has surfaced which should have been left as it is. Like the little secret. 

 

“It is a common tune.” He tries knowing that he will fail.

 

“The hell it is. The hell!” John is screaming. “That song has a name. It’s Johnny boy. My mum made it for me. And I have never sang this since she died! That was seven years ago. Seven. I have never…” He stops suddenly.

 

Sherlock wants nothing but to just faint and not have this conversation. Perhaps the ground could swallow him up and he could disappear?  

 

“Except two years ago when they asked me. Are you…? Did you… Spy on me? Is it something Mycroft did for you?” John's voice breaks. 

 

“No John. It’s not like that.” He brings out the most assuring voice he can master despite the panic rising in his chest. “The study done on you in the military. The data and everything. They put it in an artificial companion.” He lickes his lips. He needs water but John is looking at him in such a way that it feels like they are strangers.

 

“Um… your personality and voice was...was.” he clears his throat. Can Mycroft just come here and tell John? 

 

“It was used as a basis for a higher level of A.I based companion. I was offered to test the beta version. And for six months I did. It was your voice. I called you Ten. Ten Twenty-Three - J. W. You stayed with me for six months. And it was one of the best times of my life.” He pauses for breath. His heart is not cooperating. In his own ears his voice sounds like a sob. The one he is trying to contain desperately.

 

John is not talking.

 

“I will be in our… um… the bedroom. I am going to… I am.” He doesn’t know what he is going to do. So he just turns the stove off. Wipes his hands calmly on the dish cloth and slowly goes to their room. Leaving John alone and standing. John is going to feel betrayed for sure. And then there is a chance that he will leave him. He doesn’t want to calculate how slim or fat that chance is.

 

He might have dozed off a bit while hugging the pillow like a complete moron. A soft touch on his hair makes him open his eyes.

 

“I had sensors all around my body.  Had to keep them on all the time. They said they needed to capture every sound or exclamation I made. The way my speech pattern changed, my interests, vitals, everything. They had a questionnaire. Asked me to sing a song associated with a good memory. I sang that one. Only once in seven years. And never after that.” John’s voice is calm and low. Like he is singing a lullaby to a child. Hands still on Sherlock’s hair. Drawing doodles on his scalp.

 

“They never told me what it was gonna be used for. It is a bit creepy.”

 

John… Does not sound angry.

 

“You are… You're not angry?” Sherlock dares to turn and look at John’s face.

 

“Angry?” John’s face is a soft ball of golden warmth in the light of the bedside lamp.

 

“Oh. You thought I was angry at you.That’s why you left me alone in the kitchen standing and then had a nap while I tried to get a grip on what was happening?”

 

“I did not have a nap. I thought you were angry.” Sherlock pouts. His heart is still beating rapidly.

 

“You are a moron. I am just. I was taken aback and felt betrayed for a while. This is a lot to take in.” John lifts both his legs onto the bed. And Sherlock sits up properly.

 

“Then I remembered you calling me Ten by mistake occasionally.”

 

Sherlock does not know what to say. He concentrates on the pattern of the bed sheets. 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why am I knowing this only accidentally?”

 

“I thought you would feel uneasy. It would have made things awkward between us.” He takes a gulp. “I did not plan to fall in love with you again, John.”

 

“Again?” John is clearly amused.

 

“Aaah. Hell. Yes... It was more about myself than it was about you. I really did not plan to end up with you in bed. I just wanted to keep you safe. And thankful for the second chance at having you in my life again.” Sherlock scoffs.

 

“This is bizarre. More bizarre than I bargained for.” John puts a hand over his eyes. And laughs nervously.

 

“Are you complaining?”

 

“You are an idiot. Did I tell you that?” John removes the hand and laughs again.

 

“Quite a number of times, John.”

 

“So...” John cleares his throat. “How was the other me?”

 

“Not another you. It was you the whole time.” He looks at John for the first time fully. John’s eyes are crinkled in amusement. A corner of his lips quirked up. He kisses it.

 

“Okay, so how was I?”

 

“Almost the same as you. Just lacking several qualities.” He smiles playfully at John and slowly dips his hand in the small hollow John’s parted legs made. John draws a sharp breath and his smile goes even wider.

 

And Sherlock finds his confidence back. John is not leaving him. What he has been is a complete idiot.

 

“I like this version better.” He bites John’s ear making his lover giggle. Lover. Yes. John is surely that.

 

“I am jealous you know. You met me before I met you and that’s ridiculous.” There is a bit of a whining in John’s voice, like a stubborn child.

 

“Really, John? You are jealous of yourself? Now who is being childish?” 

 

“Me.” John purses his lips and sits still when Sherlock slowly climbs on his lap.

 

“Yes, you.”

 

“What did I do the whole day?’

 

“Screamed at me when I didn’t eat properly. Tried to correct my behaviour sometimes. Laughed at my jokes. Never got bored of me. I didn’t know that there was a human being behind all of that.” He touches John’s parted lips with his fingertips. “But still I imagined the voice as one.”

 

“Imagined… did you…?” Sherlock knows he is unable to control the fact the the blood is rushing to his cheeks. Enough confirmation for John. “You wanked to my voice?” John’s mouth falls open. “I feel proud.”

 

“No need to act smug, John. And not particularly to your voice. It’s just the imagination that counts. I was particularly happy to find that you have blue eyes.” A lick to John’s lower lip makes John gulp. And as a rule Sherlock has to kiss his throat. Well not really a rule.

 

John’s shoulder relaxes and he lets a soft breath out.

 

“Where was I?”

 

“Hmm?” Sherlock looks up.

 

“Chip you said. Where was it?” John pauses. Then adds. “Where was I?”

 

Sherlock guides John’s hand to the small, almost non existent scar on his head. “There.”

 

Then over his heart. “And here.” And before John asks further. On his head. “Physically. In my heart emotionally, metaphorically.” He clarifies.

 

Then without saying anything, John tugs his hand and rolls them on the bed, trapping Sherlock with his body. And kisses the tip of his nose. And his cheeks, lips, every piece of skin available.

 

“Technology… God. How surreal things can be.” John murmurs into his skin.

 

“It’s wonderful. Technology. Don’t stop what you are doing.” He squirms under John.

 

“Can't believe the unrealness of this whole thing. How much of a coincidence was it meeting you?” John sounds distant suddenly. Thoughtful.

  
  


“I have calculated. It is a very long string of numbers with a point and several zeros behind it.” Sherlock says breathlessly. “Also Mycroft says coincidences doesn't exist.” He is feeling dizzy. In love maybe.

  
  


“You are a mad bastard. I hate you and I love you more than anything.” John places a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

  
  


***

  
  


A hand encircles his hip when he ultimately completes making the dinner despite several attempts from John trying to diminish the cooking attempt. One could say that John is not even interested in dinner.

 

“I am doing this for you.”

 

“Leave the pasta. I can have you for dinner.”

 

“Not really healthy or fulfilling.”

 

“No it is. I am a doctor. I know stuff.”

 

“Mind your bandages John.”

 

“Shush.”

 

John groans and grinds his pyjama clad arse making Sherlock jump and laugh. Then a pair of warm and thin lips pepper kisses on his neck and a soft voice hums.

 

_ The white picket fences and little mailbox,  _

_ Johnny boy where have you left your socks?  _

 

***

 

“You are an annoying git.” John says when Sherlock pushes him onto the bed. Both of them panting.

 

Sherlock pulls a serious face. “For the next time, before you call me by any colourful adjective, remember John. I loved you before I even met you. I deserve a little credit for that.”

 

"Call me that."

 

"What?"

 

"You know what."

 

Sherlock laughs and does as John demands.

"Hello Ten."

 

At that John smiles and kisses him with lips tasting like rainwater, calling him a mad bastard. Then makes Sherlock understand what being in love feels like. And Sherlock Holmes falls in love with John Watson for the thousandth time in one life.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp there is it. The end. And with it comes the empty feeling of completing a fic. I hope you guys enjoyed it as much I did writing it. It was fun. If you love it don't forget to leave comments even it's just an incomprehensible string of words. Trust me, I will understand. Lots of love.

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna scream with me about these two idiots? Come find me in [tumblr](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com)  
> And if you like the fic. I am very fond of comments and kudos


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